Milk and Whiskey, Blood and Water
by Intoxicated-Eyes
Summary: A long day at work for Hermione Weasley leads to an even longer mistake...a lifelong secret about the true father of her second child. This is my result of TheBooyahEffect's 'Michael Jackson' challenge. The song was Michael's "Blood On The Dance Floor"
1. Tonight Calls For Something Stronger

[Authors Note: A big thank you to Opaque-Girl for pointing out my little mix-up with the name of George's daughter! I fixed it.]

* * *

**JUNE**

_'12:28 am'._ Hermione Weasley pushed the stack of parchment to the far edge of her desk. Two minutes weren't going to matter. Not tonight. She had already stayed the extra shift due to last months mix-up of the May paperwork for Azkaban and St. Mungos that still wasn't sorted out properly; and the word 'exhausted' didn't even begin to cover it. Her body ached from sitting in her desk chair for so many long hours, but Hermione was used to it. Working for the Ministry of Magic was a bitch. There really was no other way to put it. Hermione was more than ready to call it a night as she stood and smoothed out her black pencil skirt. It was getting a little tight around her hips and such; it seemed that she had gained a little extra weight in the past months, but not enough for her to have made the time to go shopping for some new clothes. Or maybe it was that she wasn't ready to admit to those extra pounds.

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Hermione heard the television on inside as she wearily made her way up the front steps. Ever since her father had given them the Grangers old television set, Ron had been fascinated with it. Like father, like son, to say the least. Upon entering their two-story house, Hermione saw that her husband was, as she'd guessed, on the couch in front of the TV. But he was asleep. Head lolled back and snores slowly increasing in volume from his parted mouth; dead asleep. It didn't make her angry, for she had stayed rather late at work, and the scene in the dining room showed that Ron had been up waiting for her for a while. There was dinner on the table, for just the two of them-Rose had been fed earlier, of course-with two wine glasses and a crimson candlestick. The food had gone cold, and the candle long melted down and gone out. This brought a sad smile to Hermione's lips as she looked back over her shoulder at the sleeping redhead on the couch. Her hand wrapped around the frail stem of one of the wine glasses, bringing it up. But before the tart liquid touched her lips, Hermione changed her mind. Tonight called for something stronger.

She knew well enough what a devoted-yet-paranoid father Ron had become the moment Rose had gazed up at him with her amber eyes. He didn't like the idea of keeping alcohol in the house, save for an occasional bottle of wine or champagne for when the mood called for it. As worn-out as she was, when Hermione entered their bedroom, it was to remove the crisp, petal-pink button-up she'd worn to work, replacing it with a tank top of a softer material. The tank top was a warm honey color, and it complimented her amber-brown eyes and softly-tanned skin quite well. She didn't change out of the skirt, but switched her three-inch-high pumps for a set of light-brown sandals with a slight wedge heel; not enough of one to be uncomfortable, especially after what she'd just taken off. After donning a thin coat from the closet in the hallway, checking in on the peacefully-sleeping young Rose, and giving Ron a gentle kiss to the forehead, Hermione made her way back outside.

It wasn't very far to the muggle bar downtown, and the cool air outside was refreshing to Hermione's dust-caked lungs. Choosing to walk, she started on her way. Once inside and out of her light jacket, she sat at the bar counter and ordered a drink that most people gave her odd looks for ordering; milk and whiskey. She sat there quietly; sipping her drink and trying to keep away the thoughts of the mess of paperwork still left to handle at work.

"Hey there, pretty lady!" The all-too-familiar voice of Hermione's brother-in-law rang out behind her, a smiling George Weasley sliding smoothly onto the stool beside hers at the counter. He was as tall and handsome as ever, with a head full of fiery hair that was always a bit too long; but since the death of his twin, his weight had taken a noticible plummet; he still had that spark that he and Fred had been infamous for...but nowadays, it was a bit harder to find. Dimmer, maybe. Though the button-up he wore was in usual flambouyant Weasley-twin nature, being mottled patches of deep purples and bright reds, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And his pants! Those awful purple pants.

Hermione heard herself laugh. It was a quiet, tired sound, but a laugh nonetheless. She spun slightly in her barstool to face him better. "Hello there, George. Should I even ask what brings you to a muggle bar like this? Shouldn't you be frequenting places like 'Elphaba's Boot' and 'Broken Wand'?"

There was that trademark grin, even if only for a moment. "Actually, dear Elphaba herself had me thrown out a bit ago!" He chuckled, shrugging his bony shoulders. "So I decided to try the muggle scene for the rest of the night."

"I see," Hermione nodded absentindedly. The whiskey had finally started to dull the pounding of her head. She swirled the last few sips around in the bottom of the glass, then looked back up at him. "So how has everyone been at The Burrow? I'm sorry we haven't been around very much, really. But between my work, and Rose..." She trailed off with a shake of her head. "She's getting so big though; you should see her! You and Angelina should come for dinner when I have an evening off. You can bring the kids, I'm sure Ron would love to see Freddy and Roxanne. It has been some time, after all..." She watched George nod, so tired she hardly really _saw_ it at all, as he took another drink from his glass, ordering another for them both and sliding hers over to her.

Only silence followed, hovering between them for a few minutes; akaward, sticky.

George's dark-circled eyes raised from the bottom of his already-half-empty glass to study her face for a few moments. "You look tired, Hermione." He reached up to her face, brushing aside one of her chestnut curls. His knuckles grazed her cheek, but just barely. His breath carried the strong scent of mingled alcohols to her nose with his words; she chose to ignore both the comment, and the gesture.

"Where's Angelina?" Hermoine looked around for his tall, lean wife, not seeing her anywhere nearby. She took a long drink from the new glass.

"She's not here." George replied nonchalantly. Watching her from over the rim of his glass, he blew absently at a lock of his famous Weasely hair that clashed oh-so-horridly with the silk shirt he was wearing.

Something about him didn't seem right.

_'Something about me didn't seem so right either.'_

_

* * *

_

_"To escape the world, I got to enjoy this simple dance_

_And it seemed that everything was on my side."_

_'Blood On The Dance Floor'_

_[Michael Jackson]_


	2. Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?

The blue cotton sheets were surprisingly soft against Hermione's bare skin. She rubbed the edge of them between her fingers, halfheartedly wondering about the thread count. Usually hotels had fairly low-quality bedding. Not that it mattered. Rolling onto her side, she propped herself up on one elbow. She studied the man next to her; he was studying the ceiling. A pesky piece of his overgrown red hair was flopped most of the way over one of his eyes, and his cheeks were still flushed. When he turned his head to look at her and smiled, Hermione guessed that she too must still be a little pink in the face. She lowered her gaze. She still had her watch on, and it told her that it was going on 3am.

Hermione just barely avoided the hand that reached for her cheek, as she moved off the bed and quickly to the bathroom, gathering her clothes from the floor as she went. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Fully clothed, the brunette woman stepped out and pulled open the door into the hallway. She paused.

"Goodnight, George." And then she was gone, down the elevator and out the front door.

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The sound of clinking dishes in the kitchen woke Ron. He lifted his head from the back of the couch, wiping at a bit of drool on his chin. He could hear bacon frying on the stove, and the pleasant smells of maple, eggs, and coffee mingled on the air. He stood, drawn both to the scents and to the promise of seeing his wifes face. When Ron entered the kitchen, he saw Hermione in front of the sink. There were two plates of a tasty-looking breakfast on the counter and she was filling one side of the sink with soapy water; last nights dishes had been scraped off, and she was setting them in the water to soak. A smile touched her face as Rons arms encircled her from behind, pinning her to the kitchen sink gently.

"I'm sorry about last night, Love. I took an extra shift, a-and..."

"Shh."

Ron cut her off with a kiss to her cheek. A few wisps of her untamed hair clung to his lips for a moment. Turning off the water, Hermione looked over her shoulder to kiss him more directly. She was thankful he had shushed her. After a few lingering moments, their lips parted, and she leaned back into him. Both of their gazes wandered peacefully out the window above the sink, watching life outside in the muggle suburb they lived in. Rose was across the street, playing dolls with the young muggle girl she was friends with. The summer sun beat down on the carefree little girls as they played; the sunlight made Roses light red curls shine like a brand-new muggle penny. Hermione smiled.

Nuzzling her thick, chestnut-colored hair, Ron mumured in her ear, "Are you thinking what I am?..."

"Mm..." She turned in his arms, a little smirk playing on her lips. Before she replied, Hermione slipped her wand from her pocket and gave the front of Rons jeans a litle nudge, a simple contraception spell leaving her tongue. "Now I am..." She winked.

And for the second time, two platefuls of food were left uneaten, slowly growing cold where they sat...

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**AUGUST**

Ron had brought Hermione some seafood alfredo for lunch, the kind with little pink shrimps mixed in among the white; her favorite. Not today though. As she swirled her fork around in the creamy sauce-covered noodles, Hermione sighed. The smell of the shrimp was starting to make her feel a little ill, and she supposed she should cover the bowl back up. Setting it aside for later, she picked her quill back up. Then it hit her- A sudden wave of nausia caused Hermione to cover her mouth with the back of one hand and grab for the wastebasket with her other. She pressed her knuckles hard against her lips, eyes closed, silently praying for the bile that had risen in the back of her throat to disapate. That was how it had been for the last few days; she spent most of her meals doing more pushing around of her food than eating of it. Come to think of it, it had been longer even than just a few days. What she couldn't figure out was why. She had shown no other signs of having the flu, or any other illness for that matter.

Quite suddenly, a thought hit her; a terrifying thought. A thought that nearly made Hermione sicker than her lunch had. She remembered back to that morning. To how she had gone to her closet and pulled out her favorite black pencil skirt. To how she had slid it up her legs and snugly onto her hips. To how she had reached behind herself to do up the zipper. To how... ... ...

Hermione looked down at the tan slacks she was wearing. Her skirt hadn't zipped even halfway up. Amber eyes slowly, nervously studied her stomach as she lifted the hem of the crimson button-up. She felt a lump grow in her throat; she didn't know if it was due to tears or another bout of nausia. Her mood was scarily calm as she settled back into her desk chair and pulled out a clean piece of parchment. After scrawling a short request for a certain blood test, Hermione rolled up the parchment and attached it to the owl perched beside her large desk. Her eyes strayed back to the covered bowl of alfredo as the owl stretched it wings and took off.

"...Oh..._shit_..."

* * *

_"Every nights dance is like takin' a chance_

_It's not about love and romance_

_And now you're gonna get it."_

_'Blood On The Dance Floor'_

_[Michael Jackson]_


	3. Is It Hot In Here, Or Is It Just You?

[Authors note: Eek! Homigawsh, I am sooo sorry to those of you who followed this fic! It has taken me WAYWAY too long to update! Shit happens and life gets hard sometimes though, ya know? But I had some time and inspiration finallyy, and-ta-daa!-here's the end! A short third chapter and even shorter fourth chapter. Sorry they're not very long at all, but I never intended it to be a particularly lengthy fic to begin with, and it was a little difficult picking it back up with such a long gap in between. Hope you all enjoy it much! For those of you who still read this, muchos gracias. 3]

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Hermione stared in disbelief at the parchment in her tan, shaking hand. _'How could this've happened? How could I be...?...' _And then she realized. _'Oh sweet Merlin.' _Her head swam and her free hand wandered subconciously to her stomach. Storing the piece of parchment in one of her dresser drawers, Hermione went to her closet and started pulling out clothes. Her jaw was set in determination, emotions dancing brightly in her eyes. She wouldn't normally have done such an awful thing as she had done back in June. There had to have been some other reason. He had to have done something to make her act that way..._something_... ... ... ...

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George's jaw hit the floor when he saw what was coming towards him, walking through the crowded dance floor and turning heads. He had never seen her looking so...tempting? SLAP! Scratch that-so angry.

"Hermione. what-?" SLAP! Another hand across the cheek sent his words back into his throat. George backpedaled a few steps, staring at her in astonishment through his overgrown mass of fiery hair.

"Don't _'Hermione, what' _me, George Weasley! Do **not**!" Hermione's amber eyes were like fire tonight, scary and sexy at the same time. Her lips were painted a dark shade of brown-red, like chili powder; her eyes were smeared with smoky eyemakeup. The dress adorning her tanned body was very unlike her, the way it hugged every curve of her thickening, voluptuous figure, as well as the rich garnet crushed velvet that it was made of. Just a hint of black lace frills along the bottom hem of the dress barely graced her knees as she moved; the chunky heels she had on gave her an extra four inches at least, and they were the same deep red as the dress, covering her toes and the back of her heel and hooking around her ankles with a little gold buckle. A thin black choker encirled her throat, also hooked with a tiny gold buckle. Despite the anger flaring in her expression, her hips swayed a little from side to side with the music. "**We** need to **talk**, George..." She hissed the words through her teeth, eyes never leaving his as she danced closer.

George swallowed the lump in his throat with a nod as he looked down at her, still at a loss for words, but there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the other lump forming. It only made her glare harder up at him, despite the way she moved her body with the music, so close to his. "What's-?" Just as he found his voice, Hermione pushed a certain slip of parment against his chest, stopping the words again. The ice and fire in her eyes never dwindled. His hands fumbled and caught the paper, holding it up with a beweildered look that didn't last long. The next thing to cross George Weasleys face was something between horror and nausea...

* * *

_"Since you seduced her_

_How does it feel_

_To know that woman_

_Is out to kill?"_

_'Blood on the Dance Floor'_

_[Michael Jackson]_


	4. Careful

"You know, 'Mione," Ron started, smiling down at the newborn baby boy in her arms, the one with the wisps of flaming red hair and the sea-blue eyes, "Even though we were trying to be so careful...I'm glad that this happened anyways."

How could she tell him about that night after the bar; how they had gotten so caught up in what was happening, how her wand had been in her purse and George hadn't cast any contreception spell? How Hugo wasn't Ron's child. She couldn't tell him. _Never._

* * *

_"She got your baby_

_It happened fast_

_If you could only_

_Erase the past..."_

_'Blood on the Dance Floor'_

_[Michael Jackson]_


End file.
